


shadow follows light

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Ghost stories and fairytales, Technically the 'Major Character Death' happened before?, Young Petyr, mostly canon universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 19:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21307157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: While visiting her mother’s childhood estate, Sansa meets an unusual boy lurking in the shadows.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Random idea I had on the train one day, that (as per the lss usual) wound up a million times much longer than I anticipated…. So as a result, I’ve split it up into chapters. Less daunting way to read 15k words, I think?
> 
> I also planned to have this done well before Halloween, but a) the story kept going and b) work also wound up being longer than I thought. Anyways, happy reading this semi-spooky story (in the spookiest month of November)! I really hope you like it!!! :) ]

Sansa was young when she understood she had no friends.

There  _ were _ people – children and adults and pets alike – who adored her, and praised her to the ends of the world, and vied over her thick auburn curls. Sansa knew when to smile and for how long, and the exact depth of a curtsy. As though manners ran through her veins just as surely as blood.

But she was alone more often than not; no matter how many people closed around her to coo at the spitting image of her mother, or at the manners that came as naturally as breathing.  _ She’ll make a wonderful wife one day _ , they said, over and over.  _ With her looks and her charm… why, she’ll make some young man very happy indeed _ . 

It oft sounded like a compliment, so Sansa went through the required motions: smile, turn head down just slightly so she appeared embarrassed to be praised, and curtsy while replying  _ Thank you _ . Some days her knees would tired of bending. 

But she was alone, a painful realization once the other children didn’t want to play with her the way they easily pulled her sister into shenanigans. As though Sansa was a doll that might tear at all her seams, or a delicately-wrought bit of porcelain: meant to be sat upon the shelf and admired, and never ever used, gods forbid.

Though, there was one little boy she desperately wanted to befriend.

Sansa met him one sunny afternoon at her mother’s house, the same home where her own mother learned the art of  _ Please _ and  _ Thank you _ . It was a large estate filled with ample corridors for playing tag, and more nooks than servants – hide-and-go-seek was what the  _ other _ children played, but not Sansa. Her dress would dirty if she crawled down beneath tables and cupboards. She tried it, and often  _ because _ she would be scolded; though Sansa did her best not to get caught.

Her mother’s house was named Riverrun, for the river Trident than ran beside and through it. It was a river whose cold blue waters matched Sansa’s eyes (or so people cooed when they found her by the edge, her slippers and socks discarded and feet altering the course of the water just by being there. The servants gently coaxed Sansa out of the river, afraid she would catch a cold). Sansa marveled at the river through the large windows overlooking the water: the way the sunlight caught on it in moving starbursts, the cattails that swayed by the edge, as though they had been born in the water and finally decided to peek above to see what the rest of the world was going on about.

The river hummed at night. Not exactly; it wasn’t  _ alive _ , like Lady, who sometimes purred not like a dog when the nights were especially chilly. Only, Sansa didn’t know how else to describe it. Her room didn’t overlook the river (a pity), but Sansa could feel the water splitting against the piles far below her bedroom’s floor. She could sense that the river itself was alive and awake when the household was deep in slumber. It was an odd feeling at first. The woods around Winterfell were quiet in the nights, far-off howls of wolves breaking up the silence in bursts, winds rattling against the windows when the gods felt to test the strength of the castle’s walls. There was rain and snow, too, relentlessly falling against the stone walls once autumn grew brave enough to turn leaves orange and red. But this wasn’t like that at all. The river was so much different than wolves and winds and snows.

Sansa knew it was silly, but she’d begun to think of the river as her friend, even though she rarely visited. Sansa would wave at it as she passed it by through the hall’s windows, or look longingly in its direction as their carriage wound the road beside it. As though it were a living thing like her. As though it might wave back.

The Starks visited the Tully home twice a year, on firstspring and firstautumn, when the mood of the gods changed from harsh to loving and back again. It was the evening before firstautumn, when the house was abuzz with preparation – plates and plates of food, bundles and bundles of firewood – that Sansa snuck out again to meet her friend.

“Hello,” she said to it, very unlike the way she would greet kind strangers or even her parents. Everyone demanded to see the perfect little Sansa, with her practiced smile and unwrinkled skirts. The river didn’t know her, and Sansa didn’t know it. They were strangers without the pretense of manners. Sansa was just  _ another girl _ to it.

She couldn’t hide her smile as she walked right up to the water’s edge, slippered feet teasing the waves with the promise of kisses. It sensed her, riding up, reaching for her; each time, Sansa would step away. Forward and back they danced, until the river grew greedy; it jumped up, wetting the toes of her feet. Sansa squealed at the sharp bite of cold.

_ Alright then, _ she told it, looking behind her to make sure no one was around. Sansa tugged her shoes and socks off and bunched up her skirts as high as they would allow. Her clothes would wrinkle, and Sansa would be scolded for it. But she had more important matters to attend to, and besides, lies came easily to her lips (though she would never admit it. Arya lied, and often, but she was too honest that even the old Riverrun hounds could smell it. Sansa was  _ perfect _ , and could do no wrong). 

The end of summer was chilly this year, a cold that cackled  _ Told you so _ once her feet plunked deep into the currents. She thought she was prepared – she was a native of Winterfell, after all, where jumping in the first mounds of snow was tradition for children (at the chagrin of both their parents and the maids peeling damp clothes off). Sansa bit her lip at the chill; even that couldn’t tear the smile from her.

But she kept her feet firmly in the water, letting it lap against her with gentle strokes. She took one step forward, another, until she couldn’t bunch her dress up any higher without wetting her underclothes. Up to her knees, and shaking, but she didn’t want to run away. This was the furthest she’d ever gone by herself, the fact which send a pleasing jolt of rebelliousness.

In a way, it was like she was home at last.

Sansa sighed as she stared out at the dark blackness of the water. She could barely make out the shore on the other side. Sansa always wondered how deep the river sat, how long it would take her to cross it. Or how long it would take her to be wrenched downcurrent. One wrong step and she would find out.

“Hello...”

Sansa startled.  _ No, not already _ , she feared. She’d only begun to catch up with her friend. And besides, she swore she was careful sneaking out. Sneaking  _ in _ would be the trickier act, one that would be made with a bouquet of lies (“It was such a lovely night, I only wanted to take a stroll before summer was over. I promise I’ll never do it again”). 

A boy stood on the edge of the shore, not a stone’s throw away from her. At least, Sansa thought it was a boy. His welcome sounded young, and he looked small. He hid in the long shadows of the estate. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be outside, either. 

_ Maybe he could be my friend _ , Sansa thought, trying to make out his face. She couldn’t see much in the dusklight. If she blinked hard enough the boy was gone, as though he were part of the shadows himself.

“Hello,” she replied, with the same warm familiarity she gave the river. Sansa was certain she’d never met this boy before, if only because by now she knew the faces of all the servants of the house. Perhaps he was a visiting lord’s son? And perhaps the whispers of the sweet-smiling, never-loud daughter of the Starks hadn’t reached his ears. “Do you want to come in the river with me? It’s rather warm.” Sansa twisted her lips to keep from giggling. Now she was lying to  _ strangers _ . Tonight was full of firsts, she thought she might explode. LIke ever act of rebellion – no matter how small – was breaking her free from the careful mould.

“I-is it?” he asked, not moving from the shadows. 

“Yes. Much warmer than sinking your feet in snow, but not by much.”

The boy looked at her, the river, and back. Any other child – boy or girl – would relish the opportunity to do something silly. Her brothers would have left a careless trail of boots and socks as they ran. Arya would have pushed Sansa in first before plunging in. 

“Why are you here?”

“Why?” Sansa’s smile wavered. Slightly, so slightly only someone who knew her intimately (her tutors, her mother) would have caught it. “Well, I was hoping to find a toad I could kiss to turn into my handsome prince. But alas, they all seem to be asleep tonight.”

He didn’t laugh at that. Maybe he didn’t understand jokes? A pity – mirth made days where Sansa was forced to do exactly as she was told bearable. He moved. One step, two, his feet so light on the gravel shore he was practically silent. A few more steps and the faint light falling from the windows above would paint him in shapes and colors better than shadow. 

“You  _ left _ me.”

His voice sounded pained. Sansa knew she’d never met him, though she couldn’t help but form an automatic  _ I’m sorry  _ with her lips.

He stopped at the edge of light. “You left me. You… You told him not to strike the final blow, but you never once came to me when I was lying there.”

Wind whipped at Sansa, turning the river’s gentle currents into hungry claws climbing up her thighs. She didn’t know what to say. The  _ I’m sorry _ was swallowed down in a single, thick lump, with no words coming to replace it.  _ Had _ she done something one summer? Made an error without realizing, spoken words that returned harshly for this poor boy?

His body – despite the nearness to the light – was still nothing but darkness, a silhouette against the night. But his eyes… While she couldn’t make out the color, she could make out the loneliness.

“I’m...sorry…” she managed, her voice squeaking. “I’m so, so sorry, for what happened to you.” Because she didn’t know, and as weak as it was, an apology was all Sansa could offer.

He didn’t say anything, only stared at her. His body was shaking, or maybe that was the wind pushing his frail form back into the deeper shadows. Or maybe that was a bit of rationality reining him in from setting his fists upon her.

Sansa took one step closer, a stone digging uncomfortably into her foot. She  _ did _ mean it, her apology. She  _ did _ hate that he was scared with her for whatever reason. One more step; he didn’t move back. Wind whipped against her wet legs, colder than any Northern gusts.

And now, Sansa could read his face, as dark as it was. It wasn’t sadness filling his eyes, his body. It was  _ hatred _ .

He lunged for her, his hands poised to shove her back into the water. And drown her? Sansa opened her mouth to plead: for help, for forgiveness, for anything.

“M’lady!” 

A voice called, then footsteps.

Sansa’s head snapped at her name, scrambling away from the boy and up the last steps out of the water. She wouldn’t have time to dry her feet and tug her socks on, so she smashed them wet in her slippers and hoped they wouldn’t be obviously ruined. “I’m sorry!” she cried out again to the boy. “For whatever I’ve done, truly.”

But when she turned to him, he was already gone.

“There you are.” It was Jory, one of her father’s men, with a hound trotting behind him and a lamp held aloft to scare away the darkness. “What are you doing here all by yourself, m’lady?” he asked, though he wasn’t subtle about swinging the lamp around. As though looking for Sansa’s secret tryst.

“It was such a lovely night,” Sansa began, though she was shivering. From the cold? From the echo of that boy’s words? Words that seemed to seep in deeper than the water’s chill, bouncing in the emptiness between her ribs and her heart. She forced her body to stillness. “I only wanted to take a pleasant stroll before summer was over.”

Jory was satisfied that there were no boys lurking in the shadows (oh how he was wrong. But Sansa couldn’t find the boy either, no matter how hard she squinted into the darkness). “You should have asked for an escort. And… did you slip into the river?”

_ Of my own accord, yes _ . “I thought, this far south, the water wouldn’t be quite so cold. Apparently, I was wrong.”

He nodded. “Regardless, your mother and father would not approve of you wandering around by yourself so late at night, m’lady. Please ask for a chaperone if you’d like to take a second stroll.”

Sansa bit back her laughter. Of course, she wouldn’t be  _ allowed _ a second stroll for a long time. Winterfell was home, so she could get away with wandering the halls and the godswood on her own (but not  _ too _ far, never out of sight of someone who would report back). Riverrun might as well be some scary place, for all the care her parents and the servants took with her. “Of course, ser Jory. I promise I won’t do it again.” She curtsied, knowing she’d won, even if Jory thought he’d given her a proper scolding.

He turned, and Sansa reached for her stockings, bunching them up beneath her skirts. At least no one would know she’d been in the water, so long as Sansa could hide the evidence before her maid came to change her into her nightclothes.

There was a stain on the boulder where she’d left her things, one she noticed only in the flickering lamplight. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows; perhaps it only looked so fresh and dark because of the flames.

Perhaps the chill had sunk into her head already.

But it looked almost like blood.


	2. Chapter 2

The estate finally quieted late in the night, but not everyone was asleep. There were servants working through the night, and likely into the better part of the day tomorrow. Firstautumn wasn’t nearly as riotous as firstwinter back home in Winterfell, with its massive bonfires lit all around the castle, banishing the darkness from the previous year from carrying over into the next. Lords and ladies in the South (if Riverrun could be considered South; it was as north as you could get without being North) still demanded plentiful rich courses and casks of wine. By the time night would be in full swing tomorrow the whole estate would be overrun with loud chatter and searching hands in darkened corridors.

Sansa was escorted to her chambers long before any of the  _ fun _ . She was lucky one year, cavorting with her siblings in a corner of the festivities. The bonfires – smaller and fewer than during firstwinter – shined bright against the twilight darkness. Even the river looked alight, reflecting the flames and the revelers back at them. 

Then they were caught. As expected, Sansa was given a stern talking to by her mother and father, and was sent up to her rooms with a maid that chose to stay and embroider by the fire for the rest of the night. Every year since, however, the Starklings would try and sneak out for as long as they could; and every night since, their guards found them faster than before. It was, in a way, an elaborate game of hide-and-go-seek.

And this year, Sansa was determined to evade capture for as long as possible. 

And this year – as though already  _ knowing _ Sansa already had plans to sneak out and look amongst the serving hands for that boy – she was assigned a maid that kept close eye on her. That was to say, Sansa  _ did _ have plans, and was already planning it in her head. With the help of her sister, they found new crannies to hide. Not to mention Arya made friends easily with everyone and anyone, and she might have heard gossip or even met the boy himself.

“Might I call on my sister?” Sansa asked her maid Roslyn as she tucked the bedclothes in tight.

“‘Tis well dark, m’lady. Your sister is fast asleep. And what couldn’t wait until morning?”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek. “Of course. Could you call on her tomorrow before breakfast?”

Roslyn nodded. “Good night, lady Stark.”

Sansa listened to the house quiet during the night, until all that was left was her breathing and the gentle purring of the river. She looked up at the ceiling: a simple checkered pattern highlighted in silver. Sansa stared and stared. She felt years younger all of a sudden, unable to sleep and finding shapes in the shadows. The window curtains were drawn with only a sliver of light slicing the room in half. The bed sat neatly on one side, as though even the moon had plans to imprison her during the night.

Roslyn shuffled in the other room – Sansa’s rooms were large, yes, but the upper floor of the estate was far quieter. Sansa could hear Bran snoring softly in the room beside hers. Ever since the accident, he had to sleep with his mouth open, a feat Rickon didn’t care about because he had the trick of falling asleep between one blink and the next.

A quiet  _ huff _ and  _ thunk _ , and the fire burned brighter beneath the door. Sansa didn’t know what trouble was afoot to  _ guard _ Sansa like this (it was either protection or imprisonment, and Sansa didn’t enjoy the thought of the latter). Sansa managed to toss her stockings and wet slippers in a drawer just before Roslyn showed up to help with changing. Jory wasn’t the sort to report childish tendencies (unless they were bound to end up in an accident). Unless they (her parents, the people keeping close watch on her) truly believed she’d been meeting with a boy by the river’s edge? Like so many young maidens her age, caught up in the flutters of the heart. Sansa was hardly  _ unique _ in that aspect. Her chest sighed in the face of pretty boys, yes.

Besides, if she  _ had _ been out for a rendezvous, Sansa would have worn a prettier dress.

Her family was given the rooms on the third floor, and Sansa for once found herself in the only Stark room overlooking the Trident. Thus, the outer wall of her bedroom was plain of adornment compared to the other walls of the estate. No thick-growing ivy, no convenient trellis, not even a clever climb of bricks. Surely her lover would have braved sneaking in through the door than risk falling to a frigid doom.

As though Sansa had a lover. She had boys staring at her with curious eyes. Sansa  _ always _ had boys staring. She was pretty; that was a fact Sansa wasn’t ashamed of, no matter how often she knew other girls whispered unkind words behind their hands. Sansa stared back at the boys: some had soft, gentle mouths that she imagined were good for kissing; others had eyes that stared only at her face and not where the cut of her dress revealed the tops of her breasts; and others knew how to dance, and offered their hands most readily. Sansa did her best to weed out those who only used the facade of the dance as a means to press their body against her, but she wasn’t always right. One boy had to audacity to pinch her bottom. Sansa – ever the lady – left him with a bright red mark across his cheek, one that even Arya agreed was a  _ good blow _ .

The shadows stirred.

_ It’s only Lady _ , Sansa thought. Her direwolf slept with her in the colder months, usually pressed up against Sansa’s back as though Lady was the owner of the bed, and not Sansa. 

Only, it was the last day of summer, and all the Starklings’ pets were snoring in the stables three stories below.

“Hello?” she whispered, calling out into the dark corners of her room. She tried to find the candle and matches on the bedside table, her fingers fumbling over a comb and a book of poetry. Sansa gave up, pulling the cover up to her chin, until she was not a fully-formed child but only a head, like someone cut it and left it there as a cruel prank. She worried that someone might do that to her, and her brain was urging her to pull the cover up over her entirely. Nothing was out there if she couldn’t see it, and nothing could hurt her through the thick furs.

“...hello.”

It might have been the river scraping off the pilings, or birdsong from the forests only a quick dash away (Sansa desperately wanted to explore them, but she admitted she was frightened. These woods weren’t the same woods surrounding Winterfell. She knew those woods. She knew the fallen, moss-covered tree that marked the furthest point Sansa had ever ventured. She knew wild wolves kept at bay so long as Sansa kept her promise to be out and home before sunfall. She knew the biting sting of the wind, as though even nature couldn’t keep its hands off of her. Sometimes, she would close her eyes and imagine she was kissing one of those cute boys with his soft lips.

This, however, wasn’t the rustle of the wind or the howling of an animal. It was decidedly human. And it was in her room.

Sansa peeked open eyes she didn’t realize she’d closed, searching the shadows for nothing (or something? Did she  _ want _ to find it?)

The shadows stirred again, the corner furthest from the cut of moonlight.  _ It’s only my imagination _ , she said to a heart beating faster and faster.  _ It’s nothing. Just close your eyes and go to sleep and- _

“Why are you here?”

It was closer. No.  _ He _ was closer, the shape of him darkest against the shadows. As though not even the faint trace of light could eke his form out of him. Sansa peeked at him with one eye, desperate to know who he was, and desperate to find out if she’d only been imagining it.

But he asked the same question at the river.  _ Why are you here? _ Sansa didn’t know what to answer to that. She joked last time. That was before, when she thought he was just another boy.

He wasn’t. That much, Sansa was sure. Was he dangerous? Was he scared? Was he ill?

Sansa tried to think back not hours ago as she readied for bed. Had she looked into each of the corners before snuffing out the candle? Had she heard anything rustling whilst her eyes skimmed over poems of gallant knights and beautiful princesses? 

“Why are  _ you _ here?” she threw back into the darkness, though her voice wasn’t as steady as she’d have liked. But she asked if only to give herself more time to think.

Or to ready a scream.

He drew closer, feet silent. She watched as he neared the moonlight, stepping up to the hard line of it against the hardwood floor. Still, she could make out nothing but a vague sense that someone was there. Watching her.

“You keep coming here,” he said, his voice quiet and steady. “You keep coming back, and you keep leaving me behind.”

Was he talking about her yearly visits for firstautumn? Only, listening to his voice now without the rush of water, Sansa was certain she never met him before. An admirer from afar? 

“I do,” she agreed, hoping to pull words from him. “But not because I have a choice.”

“A choice?” He sounded affronted.

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. It took nothing at all for him to lunge after her in the river; this time, he was much closer. Roslyn would take much longer to stop him if he did. “I would have chosen to stay, if I could have,” Sansa said, carefully choosing her words. “You must believe me. I had no choice, but I pray to the gods every day that I did.” And Sansa looked into the darkness, pleading for him to understand...whatever it was Sansa was trying to show. Forgiveness? Pity? 

“You...didn’t have a choice…” He said it slowly, like how Sansa savored the tart juices and sweets she could only enjoy here, out of the cold reaches of the North. 

“I never would have left you,” Sansa continued, wracking her brain for his earlier accusations. Sansa had left him...after a wound. Something about him lying there. Something about a bright red stain on the stones.

Sansa had left him to die. 

Not  _ Sansa _ , exactly. Someone who looked like Sansa that this boy mistook her for. 

And he wasn’t  _ dead _ . Not if he was standing here and talking with her. He was...wounded. Perhaps long ago, if he was so nimble now.

“I never would have,” she repeated. “I wanted to...to return to you. To keep you calm whilst you recovered. To hold your hand, and tell you all the stories you liked. To be the first face you saw when you awoke. Truly, I wished it so.”

It’s what Catelyn had done when Bran had his fall. Sansa rarely saw her mother during those weeks, and Sansa couldn’t stomach staring at Bran all battered and broken for more than a minute before fleeing.

“You…?”

“I mean it,” Sansa finished for him.

The room was silent for a few heartbeats. “Truly?”

Sansa looked up, blinking away tears (even  _ she _ believed the lies she was spinning). He was beside her bed now, having crossed that endless divide of moonlight when she wasn’t looking. Sansa felt his presence more than she saw it. His body was cold, as though he’d been sat out in the dead of winter all night. Sansa shivered beneath her furs.

“Truly,” she repeated, as softly as she dared. 

He stepped closer, closer, until his body pressed up against the mattress. She felt something slide up her side over the furs; his hand. Sansa shivered; even through the thickness of her blankets, she shivered at his touch. He was cold. And he was searching.

For her face.

Small fingers found her jaw, tracing up the line of it to her ear. He left behind frost in his wake, Sansa curling her toes to keep from crying out at the bitter cold. Even WInterfell in the midst of winter was never this icy. Like there wasn’t an ounce of warmth in his body.

His fingers trailed over her eyelid, closing it as it bridged over her nose, her lips, her chin. If it weren’t for the chill of his touch, Sansa might have imagined it was only the wind exploring her so intimately. 

None of the boys – in life or in imagination – ever caressed her so gently.

Down her chin, finding the throbbing line of her vein. “You truly mean it?”

“Yes,” Sansa breathed out. It was more of a sigh, a mimic of his touch.

“Truly,” he repeated, even quieter. His touch stilled her own heartbeat.

“Yes.”

Silence for one long, drawn-out heartbeat. Something cold and wet dripped down on her cheek. Then, a voice that could have been silence: “You’re lying.”

He closed his fingers around her neck.

His body flew up on top of the mattress. Cut against moonlight, the boy had no shape.

Sansa screamed. Tried to, once his body sat on top of hers and crushed the air from her chest. 

She struggled to speak, to say the right words (how uncertain she was what those were). “I– never– would have– left–"

“You’re lying!” he repeated, pushing his body down on top of hers; he wasn’t heavy. His face was an inch from hers. “You left me. You left me to die. You  _ wanted _ me to die!”

“I’m sorry!” Sansa cried out, fear overtaking caution. “Truly, I am! I never meant to hurt you! I never meant to leave you! I’m not–"

“Lady Sansa?”

Light filled the room, and icy air filled Sansa’s lungs. She gulped it down greedily, wiping her tears with her sleeves. She was shaking. She was crying.

A silhouette stood in the light of the door. Her maid. Sansa shuffled up to sitting, as though she had merely been woken up and not seconds away from death. “Yes, Roslyn?”

“Is there…” Roslyn took one cautious step forward, a candle in her hand. Like Jory, she not-so-covertly swung it about, looking for the foolish boy in the shadows who dared to sneak into Sansa’s bedroom. “Were you speaking with someone?”

How much of the words did she hear? The struggle?

Sansa wiped false-sleep from her eyes, hoping they didn’t look too red in the candlelight. “Must have been a nightmare,” she said. She didn’t need to pretend to make her voice groggy or afraid; the boy’s hand had done that enough, closing tighter and tighter around her neck until Sansa was sure she was-

“Fine,” she added. “I’m fine.”

Roslyn didn’t believe her, though she tried not to make it obvious. She approached Sansa, arcing the candle as wide as she could to cover the darkest corners of the room. She drew the curtains closed, and fussed with the bedclothes, clucking twice, until they lay neatly over Sansa’s shivering body. Roslyn left without another word, not even a second  _ Good night _ .

Which was fine with Sansa. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack.

The night wound one. Sansa didn’t look to the corner of the room, as desperately as she wanted to. The windows were snugly shut, and the only door was where Roslyn stood vigilant. There weren’t secret passageways, either (Sansa and her siblings checked behind every tapestry and furniture when they were younger. A secret means to stay up past their bedtime, swapping stories in the dark and nibbling on stolen sweets. They did it in Winterfell, though the servants more likely than not only pretended not to hear them giggling through the night).

She drifted off long before the sun broke pink over the horizon. But not before she heard the shadows whispering her name, like it was testing it out.

LIke it was tasting the shape of it.


	3. Chapter 3

“She was the most beautiful woman in all the seven counties. I’d wager in all the world, too. She perched on the shore with her breasts in full display, her hair stuck to her skin. And she called to me with her smiles and her eyes. And I went to her, and reached for her hand. She grabbed mine, and with a smile, lead me into the waves with her. Only, her grip was stronger than any woman’s ought to be, stronger than any thick-muscled blacksmith. And just when I thought to myself,  _ How odd _ , she turned to her true self. She weren’t the beauty anymore, but a ruddy devil – leathery skin and patchy hair and fangs spreading across her whole smile. And eyes blacker than the River Trident in the midst of winter. So dark, I’d thought my very soul was slipping from me and being consumed by her. By  _ it _ . ‘Let me go!’ I screamed, but she didn’t. She pulled and pulled as I fought and fought. And then...and then the river pulled us in.”

The crowd collectively took in a breath (some mid-drink, spilling wine and ale down the front of their coats).

“If that thing killed ya, why you still here?” someone called out at the same time as another’s “We’re not pissed enough to start believin’ your fairytales, Glen.”

The crowd collectively laughed. Some were uneasy (either afraid or drunk enough to believe the story). Sansa sat back before the man beside her sloshed his ale onto her dress as he jeered with “You can’t be dead and not dead, ya twat!” The ale wouldn’t stain, but it would reek, and Sansa never liked the lingering smell of it. The lawn was already started to reek with it; Sansa wrinkled her nose.

“Lad, don’t startled the poor lady!” the man on her other side called out, slapping Sansa on the back. Sansa nearly teetered off the bench. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that, little lady!”

“No, I’m fine,” Sansa assured them with a smile. She collected herself and her skirts, and stood. The crowd was still talking amongst themselves or calling for another round of drinks. All around were groups just like the one Sansa found herself in: drinking, laughing, swapping tales of truths and make-believes. A last celebration before the fields needed the most work of harvest, and before the winds turned from cool to icy. 

And the Starklings’ plan this year. Harder to be caught if they were all split up, and not knowing where the rest were. The night was well dark now, and Sansa stared up at the stars. Shimmering white, some winking at her from universes far and far away. Almost like the river in the midst of noon, waves twinkling.

She hadn’t said  _ Hello _ to her old friend yet. 

A moment passed – could she make it without being spotted? – and she nodded farewell. “It’s alright. Besides, I was just about to head in.” Not really. The night was still young, and Sansa had no intentions of heading to her rooms so soon. She at least wanted to move someplace where her dress wasn’t in danger of turning into a sopping rag. 

Maybe she’d talk a walk down to the river. Surely there wouldn’t be ghouls in the shape of beautiful women to entice her to the dark depths. Unless, instead of a comely-faced devil, it were a boy; no, a thing, masquerading as a boy, but truly a– 

“Ah, but you’ll miss the ghost stories, miss!” 

“Ghost stories?” Sansa began to laugh, but caught herself. _ No, not a comely-faced devil, but a... _

“Have I piqued the lass’ interest?” The man named Glen gave her a raised eyebrow. Not the sort that some men would throw her way (especially this deep in their cups as he was. The smell was practically embedded in his skin at this point). But the sort of smile a friend might toss around, having found a hidden interest and began to pick and pick until it was sure to bleed. “Won’t you stay to hear this sad man’s tale?”

“You’re on your fourth cup, Glen,” someone heckled. “Don’t think a man can be sad when he’s that drunk. Just...just drunk.”

Some people laughed. Glen raised his tankard. “Aye, true enough, Yon. But enough cups to rattle a man’s brains for the stories that are  _ true _ .”

“No one wants to hear about the chicken you swore was a fine young lady!”

“Or about the time you made love to a mermaid in the Trident!”

“Or when the lady you thought was showing you her breasts was actually a-!”

“Enough, enough,” Glen said. If he weren’t so drunk already, Sansa wondered if he’d been blushing. “I ain’t saying whether  _ you _ believe my tales. But they are true, every last one of them.”

The man on Sansa’s left elbowed her. “‘Tis what he always says, and none of them ever are.”

“Now,” Glen said, turning over a bucket. It rattled as he stood up, one wobbling foot at a time, until he was standing up a head higher than everyone else. He might be drunk, yes, but at least he looked to know how to tell a tale. The crowd was already leaning forward. “I don’t think I’ve said this story in quite some time. Perhaps never in the company of some fine men and beautiful lasses.” Someone whooped. “It’s been...ten years? Twenty? Aye, how about ‘a long time’.”

“Get on with it!”

Glen didn’t acknowledge any of his hecklers as he told the story. His eyes swept over the crowd, feet turning carefully on his bucket. Sansa might have thought he looked to her more often than not, but only because (she thought) he wanted to properly spook her. “There once was a boy not any older than some of your lovely children. A small boy to be sure, who loved songs as much as any child, who loved sweets and profoundly claimed ‘It wasn’t me’ when the last sweetroll went suspiciously missing. He was here, wandering these very same halls, playing with wooden swords and childish games in this very spot.”

_ Perhaps not on that very bucket _ , Sansa mused.

“Now, he was small, I made mention of that. But not where it mattered most–" Glen pounded his chest. “They say his body was far too little to contain what his heart did, and – being so young – he knew not how to express in ways other than a little boy knew how. Throwing mudpies at passersby, pulling on the hair of the girls he right fancied, sneaking in kisses when his parents weren’t looking.” Someone whistled.

“Now. He was small. Have I mentioned that yet? Smaller than a boy his age oughtta be, yes. But love bloomed in his chest hotter than a Dornish summer. His eyes, his heart, his very soul only had eyes for one other, as though the gods themselves destined them together. Like the moon and the sun, or the winter and summer. Or like myself and five, six tankards of ale.” He swallowed the last of his drink. Others joined him.

“His love, though….” Glen began again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah, his love was destined. It was written in the stars. It was a love that would never be forgotten…” Sansa felt her chest tighten. She’d read enough poems and songs to know what to expect from this story, and yet..

She wanted to believe it was a happy tale.

“His love was to be married off to another, a boy much older and bigger than he. A proper lad, with everything expected of him. Big, strong, handsome. She loved our little hero, aye. As a brother. But as a lover?” he shrugged his shoulders.

“And so, the night before she was to be wed, our boy went up to his betrothed’s fiance. ‘I challenge you,’ he said, puffing his chest to make him look even an inch taller than he was. It didn’t do much, not when he stood beside her husband-to-be. ‘I challenge you. Tonight. Should I beat you, I will take her hand in marriage instead of you on the morn.’

“‘And what do I get if I win?’ his opponent asked.

“He didn’t know. He didn’t think he’d lose – though all bets pointed to the bigger, stronger boy. ‘I’ll let you wed her,’ he said, as though she was his to give away. 

“‘I’m off to war, soon,’ the bigger boy said. Even he was puffing out his chest. ‘Perhaps I’ll make use of you for target practice. I don’t think you’d be good at much else.’

“He agreed, and the three snuck down to the armory amidst all the servants who were working tirelessly to prepare for the wedding feast. There were baskets upon baskets of breads and sweets, and whole chickens and pigs; half were glistening with honey, and the other half with blood. They snuck through the halls, down and down. Each boy grabbed a sword and whatever armor they could before the guards realized she was there only as a distraction. They raced up and out of the house before anyone thought better to stop them. Down to the river, to this very spot. They armed themselves; the breastplate fit the bigger boy like a glove. He was born to be a fighter, born to shed blood on the battlefield.

“The smaller lad? He might as well have cut some holes in a sack and put that on. His breastplate hung loose over his scrawny chest, no matter how tightly he knotted the ties. It moved each time he practiced a swing with the sword.  _ Real _ swords, made of steel. Not the twigs and sticks he played with before. But then again, this wasn’t a game.

“She came up to them, just before they began, the light from the house illuminating what little of the river it did, sparkling off their swords. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she said.

“‘Then will you marry me instead?’ he replied. Hope filled his breast. He was smaller than her, and younger, but his heart burned just as hot as the fires cooking the feast. 

“‘I cannot,” she said.

“‘Why? Do you love him more than you love me?’

“She didn’t answer. She could not tell lies – she was a proper lady, after all.” People snickered, though Sansa felt burning ice flood through her.

“‘Why won’t you say you love me better?’ he asked.

“She did not answer that.

“‘Do you love me, honestly?’ he asked.

“‘You know I do.’

“‘As passionately as I love you?’

“She opened her mouth to speak. Her fiance, bored with the idle chat and thirsting to spill blood, called out. ‘You can back out now, and I’ll pretend you never challenged me at all.’

“‘Never,’ our boy called, imagining she said  _ Yes _ to his question. And to his love, he asked for a favor. For the tie she tied her thick hair with. For an earring, or a ring, or even a quick kiss on the cheek.

“She looked at him, and she walked away. ‘’Tis because that oaf is here,’ he thought to himself, readying his blade. ‘She loves me more than she can say, and yet she cannot say it for fear her husband will harm her for the truth. I will set her free.’

“Their blades met.” Glen smashed his tankard against the nearest one, ale sloshing out. People startled. “Again, and again. He was small, which was the only advantage he had for him. Smaller target, more nimble. But horrid with a blade. He practiced poetry and song and how to woo a girl’s heart. He never practiced with a proper sword, and so his arms – small as they were – faltered long before his burning passion blew out.

“‘Give up, and I’ll only hurt you a little,’ his foe called out, blade slicing the straps from his breastplate. It hung limply from one shoulder. ‘Just a little, and then you can leave and we’ll all forget your impudence.’

“He said nothing in return. He was tired, aye. But he didn’t trust his words. He trusted the burning in his chest. He trusted the winner’s kiss that would await him when he won. 

“He trusted in love. He was small, and weak, and stood nary a chance at success, let alone landing a single blow. But he fought for love, begging the gods to grant him this only wish.”

Sansa felt her chest tighten. She blinked, seeing red – smeared brightly against pale grey stones – and opened, seeing the red of fire flickering just beyond Glen.

“The fires were burning low. They could hardly see the other. The river ran fiercely beside them, up and up the shore until it kissed their boots. The girl sat on the side, her fingers making a mess of her dress, her hair. She knew not who to cheer for, and so she prayed for a quick end.

“There was light and fire enough for one final blow. ‘Gods, let me strike true!’ he prayed. He knew, if this love was meant to be – and he  _ knew _ , deep down in his heart, that it was – he would not perish that night.”

Glen offered his tankard, someone filling it with their own. He drank deeply; Sansa wondered if he was truly parched, or if he was only stalling. The crowd around her said nothing. Only the river beyond, only the crackling of the fires, only the distant murmurs and whoops of laughter – as though the whole world had stilled, dying to know how the story ended.

“And he struck true,” Glen said, his voice quieter than before. “And so did his foe. Straight through the stomach, and up, slicing the boy in twain. He dropped his sword, he dropped his breastplate, he dropped to his knees.

“His heart was true. His love was true. Aye, and aye. But she never loved him back. She stood above his body, what was left of it, staining the grass red. She stood and watched him die, and she plucked her way back to her fiance and forgot all about the little boy that showered her with every last scrap his too-big heart could manage.”

Glen stood down from the bucket, less wobbly than his ascent. “He’s still here, of course. He’s still wandering beside the Trident, his chest split in two, his heart beating into the night. Praying for his love to come back to him and heal his wretched soul. And should he spot any forlorn maidens–"

A hand clasped around her arm. A voice in her ear: “There you are.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa shrieked, the noise drowned out by the crowd’s own gasp. She turned, expecting to find nothing; the same nothing that pinned her down by the throat last night. He was brave, coming for her in the midst of a crowd. 

It wasn’t nothing, though. Flesh and blood and familiar sapphire. Sansa felt her insides deflate and slither down her stockings, all the way out her slippered feet. “Am I not allowed to enjoy the night as well?” The words were out before Sansa could stopper them; it wasn’t like her to be so rude to _ anyone _, let alone her mother. Perhaps coming face to face with death made the reins on Sansa loosen, just a fraction.

Catelyn stared at her daughter. Her fingers were still wrapped around Sansa’s arm, neither tightening nor letting go. They weren’t cold; they were warm (a fact Sansa noticed only because she’d been _ expecting _ frigid fingers, the same that gently (like a lover) wrapped around her throat. Before they tightened). “You’re allowed, yes. I was only worried when no one seemed to know where you were.”

_ Because I was supposed to be safely tucked inside before all the fun began _. They never enforced such a curfew back at Winterfell. What made the revelry here any different? 

“Come, Sansa, you must be tired.”

She wasn’t; if anything, Sansa was more awake now, Glen’s story pounding against her skull, her ribs. “Of course, mother.” Sansa waved _ Thank you _ to the man, but he was already swarmed with the crowd dying for more stories.

They were between crowds and bonfires, the estate’s white walls glimmering orange. “We’re leaving at first light,” her mother said, her eyes darting backwards towards Glen still standing on his bucket (who, when Sansa glanced his way, was already warming up the crowd for another tale). “Come, I’ll call for Jory to escort you back to your rooms.

_ No! _ Sansa thought, thought it and thought it until her head was one thought away from exploding with her aching desire. She finally found someone interesting, and who may be considered a friend (did friends sneak into rooms and nearly strangle each other?). Someone who might or might not be _ alive _ . Which Sansa couldn’t discover now, by the river, if she was to be jailed to her room. _ No, please no _, Sansa desperately thought. “Of course,” Sansa reluctantly said, with a bow of her head that came more from practice than from hiding the fear.

She let her mother lead her nearer the entrance to the house, only two guards posted at the door. The rest were likely drunk (or in the process of it). Sansa wondered how quick fights broke out this night, and thought very few if so little of Riverrun’s guards were stationed. It was a peaceful night, after all. One where fights and murders existed only in stories.

“Was the story he said true, mother?”

Catelyn stopped them as a train of servants walked past, carrying fresh barrels of ale to replace the empty ones. It was as though the estate saved up all year to empty its stores in a single night. “Which one?”

“The last one. With the gallant boy fighting for love.” Sansa never heard that tale, though it reminded her of others she read. _ Only, the prince wins the princess’ heart _.

“It’s only a story, my dear Sansa.” Catelyn petted her daughter’s hand, leaving her fingers there for a moment. “It’s likely boys like him lived at some point or another. Stories are based on real tales, after all. But that was only a story.”

Sansa stared ahead. She had no reason to believe her mother knew more than Sansa did. But...she had no reason to know that Catelyn _ actually did _ know more. This was her childhood home. If that story was one set here, one passed down between curious children’s ears, what was to say it wasn’t a story her mother knew?

_ Or it was a memory _.

“I had hoped he would win, that boy,” Sansa added as they continued their walk. “He fought bravely, and for his true love, only for...for _ that _ to happen.”

“He fought bravely, yes, but his love was not true.”

_ I thought you didn’t know the story _. “How so?”

Catelyn opened her mouth, and closed it. “It’s only a story,” she repeated instead. “Just as the ones your tutors taught you, and the ones I told you when you were but a babe. Nothing more, Sansa. And here,” she held out their hands to the guard. “Jory, see to it that Sansa heads straight for her rooms and goes to sleep. Call on Roslyn if she isn’t already there to help Sansa ready for sleep.”

Jory bowed, plucking a lantern from the table beside the door. They were lined up like the soldiers, their flames dancing drunkenly. “Of course, m’lady.”

Sansa – ever the proper lady – wished her mother _ Good night _ and bade her farewell with a kiss.

Sansa climbed through the house with Jory, his lantern held high above them. There was a surprising amount of people lying slumped against the walls or on the landings, the culprit lying in their outstretched palms. Sansa had never seen such drunkenness before (and the night was long from over!). Perhaps tonight she stayed out much longer than she ever had. 

But what a night. The food was rich, the sweetrolls filled with the flavors she dearly missed when she was back at Winterfell. And the stories. The same vein of beasts and adventures as any on-his-way-drunk men spew out in the late hours (Arya had better luck sneaking down to overhear them. Sansa much preferred the tales of the brave knights, though those were few with fewer happy endings. So Sansa settled for whatever tales her sister brought back up). 

Glen's final tale, however… The first night of autumn was not cold, though perhaps she could blame it on the river.

But Sansa couldn't stop shaking. 

"Are you feeling ill, m'lady?" Jory offered, reaching to grab her arm to steady her. "It's a long climb, aye but we've almost reached your rooms."

“I’m quite alright, just...chilly.” Sansa’s dress had sleeves that barely covered her arms. She rubbed them, forcing the goose-pimples away. “It’s sad to say goodbye to summer.”

“Aye.”

“And…” Sansa peered at him from the corner of her eye. He was native to the North. If she wanted to learn more about that poor boy (and whether the tale truly was a drunken figment, or based on truth), Sansa would need to talk to someone who was from here. _ Like my mother _.

As if Sansa could manage that.

“And, m’lady?”

Sansa lowered her arms. “And, some of the men were relating stories. Horrible beasts that would make even the bravest knight shiver.”

Jory brushed a dunkard away with his boot. They were halfway up the stairs; how anyone managed to climb this high with a hearty mug of ale (most of it, sadly, spilled on the steps) was beyond her.

“And,” Sansa added, licking her lips. “There was tale of a boy who lived here once, who prowls the halls searching for his true love. He lost a duel to defend her honor.” 

He chuckled. "Ghost stories aren't meant for the faint of heart, m'lady."

Sansa wanted to argue – these weren't the first stories she'd heard, and they weren't the worst. 

It was rather because Sansa was worried she _ had _ met the ghost in question last night. Twice. And perhaps he was not finished with her yet. “Have you heard such tales, ser?”

“Of ghosts, or of beasts?”

“Either.”

Jory relayed common Northern tales in short, most of which Sansa had gathered from Arya’s reconnaissance. Sansa nodded when she needed to, and gasped when the beast showed its true nature. It made the last of their ascent fly, until they were standing before her door. He knocked.

“Yes?” came Roslyn’s voice.

“The lady Sansa wishes to turn in for the night.” 

_ I don’t, really _ , but Sansa would have a better chance of sneaking out whilst Roslyn was asleep than try to outrun one of her father’s guards. Roslyn opened the door for her, and Sansa bid Jory _ Good night _ with a shallow curtsy.

Sansa relayed the gist of the revelry to Roslyn as she undressed her, who was taught just as well as Sansa when to nod and laugh and inquire. She declined the bath, preferring to sit beside the fire with a cup of tea whilst Roslyn finished up her embroidery. The night was far from over; Sansa could hear trailing shouts and whoops through the window.

“Do you have any stories, Roslyn?”

She glanced up at Sansa, her hands not stopping. In and out the needle went. “Stories, m’lday?”

“Yes. Some of the men were relaying all sort of tales tonight. I found them rather fascinating, especially those we don’t hear often up in the North.” Her maid wasn’t one Sansa knew well. Usually, one of Sansa’s ladies came down with her and stayed during their trip South. She was with child, and Sansa insisted she stay at home. To be honest, Sansa had been hoping no one would notice, or even she would be bunking with Arya. Her sister, at least, would know the precise way to sneak out of a guarded bedroom.

“Hm,” Roslyn said, her disinterest palpable. At least she didn’t want to be here as much as Sansa. “I wouldn’t want to keep you awake tonight, m’lady. Your lady mother insisted you depart first thing in the morning.”

_ Drat. _ “One story wouldn’t hurt. At least while I’m finishing my tea.”

Roslyn looked at Sansa’s cup; though she’d been sipping at it, the drink lasted far longer than intended. Steeped with herbs for relaxation, Sansa should have been crawling herself to her bed by now. Perhaps it was also nerves, and excitement.

And fear.

“Very well then. One story. Any stories in particular you prefer, m’lday?”

Sansa couldn’t outright ask for the tale Glen was describing (“Why would you insist on hearing a story you’ve heard before?”). Nor could she admit that something – or some_ one _ – found Sansa particularly interesting. 

“My sister, Arya – have you met her? – she was telling me tonight of a serving boy who told her an interesting tale. I couldn’t catch more than the beginning, unfortunately. But I was hoping, if it was a local story, that you might know it, and you could finish it in her place.”

“Aye, I know several. Which is it?”

“It’s…” Sansa trailed off, pretending to remember through the haze of feigned sleep. “Oh, something about a boy… Who loved a girl so much he fought for her?”

Roslyn scoffed. “Sounds like just about any ol’ tale of knights and princesses.”

“It does. But this boy wasn’t a knight. He was just a boy, and he loved her so much he…” Sansa bit her lip. “Well, I don’t know the ending. I’m hoping he and her fall in love and they live happily ever after.”

Her maid put her embroidery at arm’s length, admiring it with a tilt of her head. She clucked – a thread in the wrong place, perhaps. “If you enjoy happy endings, m’lady, then I don’t think I should finish this tale.”

_ So she does know it _. “Oh. Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it anyway.”

Roslyn looked at her, her embroidery, then set the fabric down on her lap, smoothing it out whilst staring off at a point beyond Sansa’s shoulder. “There once was a boy whose heart grew much larger than he did. He loved a girl, and thought the girl loved him in return. They were childhood friends, and they grew up together for many years. Then she was promised to another, and he was so distraught he duelled her fiance with the victory of her hand. He didn’t know how to swing a sword, and yet he tried. Gallant, yes. Noble, and knightly, yes. Smart?” Roslyn clucked her teeth. “They say his spirit wanders the river where he was slain, and drags down pretty maids to marry them beneath the waves. They aren’t his true love, and they don’t last very long under water.”

She picked up her things and settled them in the basket by her feet. Roslyn approached Sansa, taking her half-empty cup and nodding to the bedroom door. “Now, time for sleep. I’ll be here should you need anything else tonight. I’ll wake you in the morning for a bath before you depart.”

Sansa nodded, though she wasn’t feeling sleepy. “Thank you, and good night.”

“Good night, m'lady.”

* * *

Sansa sat up against her pillows staring into the corners of her room. The candlelight was dim enough Roslyn wouldn’t be alerted, but just bright enough to prove there wasn't anyone else sharing her room. At least, anyone with a body. 

_ Would he stay away if I keep the light on? _

Her eyes flicked from one dark spot to another, never resting long enough should he appear in one of the others. Roslyn was still awake in the other room; embroidering, perhaps, or reading a book, all whilst humming a tune to herself. Firstautumn festivities continued, louder than before. As more people were falling to sleep from drunkenness, the few who remained grew louder to make up for them.

Sansa opened her mouth. 

_ Will he come if I call him? _

She closed it. Had their interaction been limited to the river, Sansa would have thought nothing of it. He was there and gone before she knew it; a bit of imagination brought on by her childish delight of breaking the rules. And maybe, even if he _ had _ been in her room last night, Sansa still could brush it off as a nightmare. 

Except he touched her.

She shivered. Even now, Sansa could feel the trace of his skin on hers, freezing cold and solid. Ghosts were more akin to air and mist than a person. They were _ dead _, floating between this world and the next. Unhappy with something in their life with enough passion to remain. 

But could they touch her? Could they wrap their fingers around her neck and bring her into their realm?

Sansa mused over the tale. _ It’s nothing more than a story _.

The small boy fighting by the river, eager to prove his love and win her over. _ It’s only a story _.

His last breath as his body was split open; blood staining the grass, the stones, filling the river itself. _ Only a story _.

Him wandering the river looking for wandering maidens, hoping his love came back for him. _ A story _.

Pulling a stray girl down into the river’s depth.

Hoping to kiss her, and cherish her, and make true of the promises he never could whilst alive.

Sansa wasn’t anyone _ special _ to him. She was just _ another girl _ . Another bride-to-be, whose body would wash up on the shore the next morning. People would _ tsk _ their tongues and add her to the tally of the boy’s victims.

She scrunched up the furs in her hands. What was she hoping for? A fairytale ending? For the boy to whisk her away? _ He’d only send me to my death _.

And yet….

And yet she was sitting here, feigning sleep, the only barrier between knowing if she was right or if she was insane three little flicks of flame. Sansa stared at them. They danced wildly as she exhaled. They stood up straight as she held her breath.

Her eyes moved to the darkness again. 

Sansa didn’t know his name, and she didn’t know if she was being brave or foolish. Both, perhaps. She should sit outside with Roslyn, where the roar in the fireplace was sure to keep at baby any errant thoughts or curious specters. 

She licked her fingers. She’d seen people do this plenty of times, and yet Sansa silently yelped as she pinched the first flame. It was less from the pain (it didn’t hurt, actually, she was surprised), and more from the realization of what she was doing.

Sansa looked in the corners again. ROslyn was still humming a tune; a loud jeer of whoops filtered up from outside; if Sansa listened carefully enough, she could make out the river’s heartbeat as it crashed against the piles. The world was oblivious to the growing beat of her heart.

She didn’t cry out the second time, as she thrust the room into the barest flicker of light. The furniture made monsters against the wall; even her own silhouette climbed to the ceiling. Sansa stared at each of them, her heart hammering wildly. None of them proved to be the boy. 

And yet, her fingers hovered over the final flame.

_ Am I a fool in this _, she wondered. Sansa couldn’t help but feel...excited. She was nervous, and terrified, and afraid. But there was that stray heartbeat that beat to the tune of a different emotion, one that flashed a million and one scenarios through her mind.

Sansa pulled her hand away, watching the candle wiggle just slightly.

The third flame went away with a swift breath of air.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re still here.”

She could still smell the smoke of the candles. She’d pulled up the fur to her chin, leaving Sansa nothing more than a pair of eyes and a bit of tangled auburn hair. Her sight eventually adjusted to the darkness, faster than usual, as though the fear pumping in tandem with her blood knew of the danger lurking in the darkness. Her heart spiked when he spoke; it was a frenetic march now. Carefully, Sansa lowered the fur to her chin, tasting the air. It was cool. “Yes. I’m here”

Sansa made sure to leave a wider gap in the curtains this time, large enough that the whole of the moon was framed between plush velvet. It angled towards her, casting the bottom half of the bed in silver highlights. She could see the corners of the walls, outlined in silver. But no matter where she looked, Sansa couldn’t find the dim shape of a person amongst the shadows.

“Why?” His voice was...soft. Sad, almost. LIke he  _ expected _ her to have left him. After nearly drowning her, and choking her, and pulling her away into the darkness where the revelry would cover the sounds of her screams… Sansa was still here.

She wished she knew why, too.

Sansa looked towards the voice. It was an equal mixture of anger and curiosity. Did the other girls he stumbled across go willingly towards him, as Sansa was foolishly doing now? Did the other girls run and hide – before he found them, and dragged them through the fabric between this world (solid, beating) and the next (ethereal, quiet)?

Or was there something  _ unique _ about Sansa? Something beyond her measured manners and perfect curtsies. Boys and girls were enamored with Sansa; it was an act carefully curated, even though Sansa hadn’t realized it until recently. Was there something he saw that drew him out of the river (twice, now)?

Something that pulled him into her very room.

Her voice was quiet but firm. “I came back for you.”

He moved before Sansa realized, standing just beyond the moonlight at the foot of her bed. His shape was darker than the shadows beyond. “Why?”

Why, indeed. A million lies and truths rattled in her brain tonight. None of them seemed adequate enough. Sansa only said, “Because I have.” It was hardly an answer, but it was the truth. She didn’t  _ know _ why she was here, but she was. If she could guess, he felt the same way.

“Then… why  _ do _ you hide from me?” The shadows motioned to the furs bundled up along her jaw. 

Was it courage, or idiocy, that had Sansa replying, “Why do you do the same? You never stand in the light where I can see you.”

“You don’t want to see me.”

“I do.” And somehow, despite the fear warning her (rather loudly) that he was a monster, the sort that would kill her without hesitation (he  _ did _ try; Jory foiled his first attempt, and Roslyn the second) – Sansa believed herself. Was it curiosity? Was it...something deeper? Some other reason for the frantic beating of her heart?

“I do,” she repeated, lowering the blanket to her chest. “You’ve been hiding in the shadows for far too long. I… I would like to see your face again, before I forget it.”

“Why would you forget?”

“Because… it’s been so long. I should have come to you sooner, I know. I worried whether to come to you at all. But now that I have… I know that I must see you.”

He was quiet, studying her face for a hint of lies. Sansa lowered the blanket further, until her hands sat against her thighs.  _ Look at me and find no lies _ , she said.  _ I have no lies to tell you. I only have a curiosity, and even that might be a stretch of the truth _ .

The darkness stared back at her. Sansa didn’t know what to expect. It was equally likely that he would relent and step into the light as it was he would lunge after her and finish what he’d started. He was angry, and tired, and hurting. 

For so long he was hurting. 

“Please,” she whispered.

The darkness shivered. Slowly, it slithered forward, engulfing the light where it touched. It stood where the center of the moon’s shining silhouette once sparkled against the polished hardwood. Wisp by wisp, shadows peeled away from a shape that was vaguely a person. Then another layer, and another, until moonlight glistened off pale skin. 

Sansa curled her toes into the mattress when what remained of the shadows looked at her with hauntingly human eyes. She didn’t want to frighten him away with fear, but…

But the wound was hideous.

His chest was split in two. From his naval to his collarbone, hanging loosely open like a new book whose spine was uncracked. The skin was raw and red, torn in ragged pieces near the top where the sword would have struggled against the ribs. There were smaller cuts and bruises along his sides and arms, but no matter how far she got counting them, Sansa’s eyes kept drifting back to the cut that killed him. 

“Stop.”

Sansa startled. She hadn’t realized she approached him – one foot off the bed and the blanket slipping to the floor. Her fingers were an inch from his skin. His hand clamped around hers, so tight and so cold. Sansa stared at it, then his face.

He was only a boy, as young as Sansa and as small as Arya. He had loose curls so black they blended with the darkness.. Wounds covered his cheeks, too; some looked to have been made with the pommel of the blade. Beneath the bright red – bruises that never healed – he would have been pretty.

“He did this to you…” she said, lowering her gaze back to his chest. Part of her wanted to reach out and touch him, but her hand was still locked in his grasp. And besides,  _ seeing _ him at all, so vulnerable, was more than he offered any of the other girls (a quick death, perhaps?) “And I…. I never should have left you. I should have been there with you when you….”  _ died _ , she thought, but couldn’t say. It seemed wrong to think that when he was here, standing before her in his ghostly flesh,  _ holding onto her _ like he was alive.

But he wasn’t.

His other hand reached for her face, stopping close enough Sansa could feel the cold rippling off his skin and caressing her cheek. “You… you aren’t frightened?”

The staccato in her chest said otherwise. Still, Sansa leaned forward the last bit until his fingertips pressed into her skin deep enough he was touching bone. “I am. But I won’t run away this time.”

His eyes were pitch black – the last vestiges of darkness, a tether to the other world where he should belong. Sansa watched emotions cross his face: anger (at the girl who left him to die) and fear (that perhaps Sansa was pulling a joke) and….

Hope. That Sansa  _ meant _ it. That  _ finally _ , after waiting so long, he could finally hear the words he’d longed for.

So Sansa spoke them. “I should have said this before,” she began, not tearing her gaze away from his. She nuzzled his fingers with her cheek. “I...I love you.” And before he could ask it, “Truly.”

His mouth hung open, a thousand questions filling his throat but unable to break free. 

Sansa slithered off the bed, standing before him in nothing but her nightdress. She placed his hand back on her cheek (it was a relief on its own, feeling the chilly press of his skin against hers). Sansa set her free hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath that nasty bruise. 

“You don’t…” he started, words turning to half-sounds as he tried to form a thought.

“I do.”

“No. No, you–"

Sansa pulled his face towards hers and kissed him.

It was the same as her words –  _ I love you, truly, I do _ – and perhaps he was uncertain because he could hear the falseness in her voice, or see it in her eyes, or feel it in the goose-pimples dotting up and down her entire body. But in her lips? In the way her hand (of its own accord) slithered around to the nape of his neck, playing with the short curls there as her mouth said what her words couldn’t?

_ Believe me _ .

Because, if she was being honest, Sansa was starting to believe the lie herself.

The shadows pulled away (shadows, and not the boy, because for the brief glimpse Sansa caught it, there was only black wriggling away from her and not the pale cold flesh she’d started to map). He had turned back to darkness, slithering away.

Rejection stung. Sansa rejected plenty of comely boys, though she suspected they came to ask her anyways – for a conversation, a dance, a kiss – just to stand in her space and speak with her and (likely) catch a glimpse down the front of her dress.

None of them truly loved her. And love was the crux here, wasn’t it? Saying  _ No thank you _ to something you didn’t particularly care for was easy. Like Rickon when he declined vegetables unless it was winter squash cooked soft with butter and spices, or Arya whenever Sansa extended the offer to sit and embroider and share tales of princes.

It was easy to reject and be rejected by things where love wasn’t a factor.

But the sudden emptiness in Sansa’s chest? The sudden warmth spilling back into her fingertips and her lips?

Sansa climbed back beneath the bedclothes, pulling them up over her head. She didn’t want to think what the ache between her ribs meant, or why – even after what felt like an hour – sleep still didn’t come to her. At least when she was dreaming, she wouldn’t have to feel things.

She tossed one way, the other, until eventually when she opened her eyes she was staring into the darkest corner of the room. It didn’t shift or stir (like good shadows didn’t do). Sansa stared at the darkness, forcing it to turn into a human shape. 

“Are you still there,” she whispered, not blinking in case she missed the shadows shivering.

The darkness stared back for a long time, unmoving. Long enough that Sansa couldn’t be sure it was wind through the trees outside, or the revelers still drinking and cheering, or just her cruel imagination. But the darkness whispered back, “Aye.” 

The shadows held an orange hue from the fires burning outside, and the moon (like the boy) was huddled behind the curtains. 

Sansa scooted back, flipping the covers over half the bed. “If… If you’re cold…” she said, then tossed back and slammed her eyes shut. She tried not to listen for the slight shifting of the floors as someone walked across it, or the feel as the mattress beneath her shifted as someone sat upon it. 

Perhaps he took her offer.

Perhaps he didn’t.

Sansa closed her eyes, pushing the thought and the ache in her chest away. Pretended to sleep long enough until she finally did. 


	6. Chapter 6

The sun began cresting the windowsill, breaking through the darkness of her room. Now, the house was quieter than most mornings, its inhabitants thoroughly drunk from the night before. Far below, servants worked to prepare breakfast, and others were tending to the doubtless mess strewn about the halls and the lawn. But no creaking footsteps reached her ears, nor were there shouts within or without the house.

It felt as though Riverrun was on the cusp of dreaming and reality.

Sansa had only a handful of minutes before Roslyn firmly shucked the world back into reality, barging in with a tub and fresh set of clothes. It was unusual for the Starks to depart so soon. Something Sansa had time to muse on now (when her thoughts weren’t consumed by the mysterious boy cloaked in shadows. Which was to say, Sansa only thought of the oddity now).

She looked at him. It  _ hadn’t _ been her wicked mind playing tricks on her during the night; he’d accepted her offer, though he was perched on the furthest edge of the bed. He had the furs pulled up against his chin, leaving him nothing more than a lump with a head. Dawn’s warm pinks and yellows settled on his skin – flushing them with life. Though, Sansa knew it was nothing more than a trick, fooling her into believing he was just any other boy. Any other boy with his black hair mussed with sleep, his lips parted slightly. His eyelashes looked especially dark against his pale skin, and beneath eyelids his eyes were moving through his dream. What bruises she could spy between hair and fur could have been a trick of the shadows (if Sansa hadn’t seen them last night). Even asleep, he was afraid of letting Sansa see the naked wound.

She wanted to see it again in the sunlight. Wanted to know the depth of the cut (was it the shadows that made her see his unbeating heart?) Wanted to run her fingers along the edge. Wanted to know what he felt, then and now.

Wanted to know if he was alive.

_ He’s dead. He died years ago _ . And yet, Sansa couldn’t help but hold onto the silly idea that her life – in this very moment – was a fairytale. Had it been Sansa’s fascination with the wild nature of the world that had her longing for the river every visit? Or was it him, his death pulling her closer and closer, as though their very souls were entwined with a thread spun from the stars? Was it her very mother that spurned him all those years ago, left him dying on the bank with not even a passing look? Or was Sansa only finding pieces that fit because she was cutting off the bits that didn’t?

She tried not to think about the logic of fairytales, but Sansa couldn’t help it. It was one thing to read about the trapped princess and the knight that saved her, and another thing entirely to  _ be _ the trapped princess.

Or was she the knight?

The sun crept higher up the window, sliver by sliver. Light trickled up the boy’s covered form, creeping up inches below where his face was exposed by the blanket. Sansa couldn’t help but imagine what color his eyes might have been when he was alive, and how the light would play tricks on them. How they might have looked glancing away when he’d been caught staring. Or how they might look holding fast, never letting up.

Sansa reached to brush a curl off his cheek. His skin was as cold as it had been last night. And it was because he was asleep that she dared to leave her fingertips there, to see if she felt the faintest traces of a heartbeat.

There was nothing that said he was alive (because he  _ wasn’t _ ). 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice somewhere between silence and a whisper. “I… I’d have loved you, if I’d been my mother.” Sansa traced around the pommel’s bruise. This close, she could make out the spiderwebs of veins beneath his skin. “But I can do it now.”

“Truly?” His voice was just as quiet. Though he didn’t move – open his eyes, or breathe – he let her touch him. Sansa’s fingertips were growing numb.

She smiled. “Is that the only question you can ask?”

He peeked one eye open. It was still void of anything but darkness. 

“And when were you going to announce you’d been awake this whole time.” Sansa pulled her hand away, only for his fingers to jut out from the covers and hold on.

“Because I had been awake this whole time.”

“You…” Sansa could feel her face redden.  _ Gods, don’t tell me I snored. _

“It’s not an easy thing, to sleep, when you don’t need to.”

They stared at each other a moment, hardly any space separating their faces or their bodies. Modesty urged Sansa to move away, to insist he not touch her or stare at her or...anything worse. 

“Do you….” she began, not sure how to pose the question, or if there was some chapter in her manners course that detailed  _ What to Say and What Not to Say in the Presence of Someone Who’s Likely Dead _ . Sansa swirled niceties around her tongue, before forgoing them. “Do you know what happened to you.”

“Are you asking whether I know if I died?”

She winced at that.  _ Died _ . Like he shouldn’t be here (in more than the sense Sansa was a maiden and he possibly disreputable). 

“I…” he trailed off. “I know I was injured. I know I couldn’t leave with things left the way they were. And so I stayed.”

“What about the other girls?”

His pitch-dark eyes stared at her, a dark fire burning beneath his skin. Perhaps that was the question that would turn him back into the monster he’d been, like a kiss to transform a handsome prince back into a toad, only one with claws and fangs. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t–"

“I remember them. I think.” He looked down at Sansa’s lips for a moment. “It was a very long dream, one that I knew I wanted to awake from, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Because… I knew awaking would only hurt more than dreams.”

He had a face as young as hers, and yet he sounded years older. In a way, he was.

“Besides,” he added, his voice soft. “None of them were whom destiny had written upon my heart.” His eyes moved back up to hers. “And you aren’t the girl I fell in love with.”

Sansa felt her heart drop, ice flooding in through the gaps between her veins. She kept her fingers moving over his skin, however, as if writing with her fingertips  _ I am, I’ve always been that girl _ .

He continued, “And yet, you love me.”

The strange beating between her ribs when she learned he’d spent the night curled beside her staring at her; the sudden tightness in her chest at his words, and what that might mean for this sudden fairytale she’d found herself in; the urge to comb her fingers through his mess of curls and to pull down the covers and see him in the bright of day, for who he was  _ now _ and not the smitten boy he’d been some twenty years ago; the strange dreams of herself waking up beside him again, here and in her bed in Winterfell... If all  _ that _ was what love was, then Sansa was in too deep to swim back to the surface.

Like a maiden wandering the shores, catching the eye of a forlorn boy...

Her words were strong as she spoke: the truth. “Because you’re alone, like I am.”

Had he a functioning body like hers, Sansa knew tears would have fallen, and a blush would have crept up to match the bruises on his cheeks. Instead, a breathless gasp stilled him so thoroughly, Sansa feared he truly did die.

And then he let loose that breath, a cold wind tickling her face. 

“May I…” Sansa glanced behind him to the wall and the window. Realization she had a boy in her bed – that he  _ slept _ in her bed all night – hit her for the second time, this time hard enough to send her heart hammering loud enough he was sure to hear it. He was here, beside her, close enough Sansa could touch his face or wrap her arm around his neck. He hadn’t been wearing anything last night but the shadows. Perhaps he kept the furs tightly against him not because he was cold or hiding, but out of propriety. 

And it was because of propriety that Sansa asked, “May I see it again, in the daylight?” Manners, after all, were a hard mould to break.

“It’s hideous.” He looked away, only for a moment, before his eyes fell back on Sansa. As though he couldn’t help but stare at her, something heavier than curiosity; like a moth, so used to flickering candles, who’s just discovered the raw power of the sun. 

“Would you trade one look for a kiss?”

Had he been alive, Sansa was sure he’d blush (again). Sansa might not have a swath of experience herself in the art of wooing, but she’d overheard plenty of conversations. And besides, Sansa wasn’t playing a trick on him. She  _ did _ want to kiss him again. He was a surprisingly good kisser for someone who’d been dead for longer than Sansa had been alive. 

He licked his lips. “Two.”

“Greedy.”

“Dead.”

The thought of which should have turned her away. Sansa lowered her fingers to the edge of the blanket, tucking it down a fraction before placing her lips to his. They were as icy as before; though, perhaps not. Cold, yes, but far more welcoming. As though he, too, had been afraid last night:  _ She’s only using me, she’s only pretending, she’s going to leave _ .

_ I’m not _ , Sansa said, as she pushed her lips against his.  _ I’m right here _ .

Eventually, reluctantly, they pulled away, only because Sansa needed to breathe. 

Sansa tucked her fingers beneath the blanket. He stopped her with his own. “That was only one.”

“One now, and one after,” she said. Besides, she knew where she wanted to plant the second one: upon the hideous, jagged skin where his heart lay unbeating beneath.

Perhaps – like the toad to a prince – it would set him alive again.

Slowly, she lifted the blankets. Sunlight was on the cusp of kissing his pallid skin, held at bay by the thick fur. It was a compromise neither of them agreed to, but both found solace in. 

And it  _ was _ as gruesome as Sansa remembered. Red and ragged and raw, as fresh as it had been the moment his chest was cleft in twain. 

“Sansa…” he said, the word fully formed this time. It sounded…wonderful. Like the first time Snasa tasted a lemoncake; one nibble, and she knew she wanted to have a thousand more, to drown herself in them, if she could.

Sansa leaned in to his chest, feeling him still beneath her. Closer, her lips hovering over his heart– 

“Sansa, ‘tis time to get ready!”

There were two knocks on the door before it burst open. Roslyn carried one bucket of steaming water, a pair of serving girls bustling in the room beyond filling up the tub. A roaring fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace, and the hint of fresh bread swept in, pulling a rumble from Sansa’s stomach.

Sansa – as hungry and tired as she was – had more pressing concerns. Like the fact she was caught with a naked boy in her bed.

She flopped down and shoved the covers up over her head. “It’s much too early for this, don’t you think?” she whined, praying Roslyn would relent with  _ Fine, five more minutes _ .

“Not early enough, apparently.”

_ Please, no _ . Sansa poked her head up. “I’ll be right there, then, if you truly insist. I can undress myself.”

“Aye, but much faster if I help.”

“No, it’s fine!” Sansa reached for the furs, pulling them tightly under her neck. Roslyn was faster, and surprisingly stronger, spurned on by curiosity.

She’d a look of  _ A-ha! _ on her face as the furs billowed up.

The bed was empty.

Roslyn clucked her tongue (she might have been a chicken in a past life, Sansa decided). “You’ve started your moon’s cycle, haven’t you?”

“I–" Sansa stammered, trying not to  _ look _ the chicken, gaping between the sheets and the room, as though a stray shadow would sneak behind the dressing table in the shape of a glib teenage boy. “Yes. I, I apologize for the mess.”

“You needn’t be ashamed of the mess.” Though from the second glance Roslyn was tossing at the sheets, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if even she bought the lie.

Because there certainly was too much blood for the start of her monthly cycle. And possibly too much blood for other bedtime delights. It was a solid red line running the length of a human’s torso.

But there was no body to be found.

“Get yourself in the bath and I’ll call for some girls to change your sheets.” 

Sansa nodded – it was all she could manage to do. Roslyn waited until Sansa stood up from the bed and tugged her shift off (despite offering to help, she let Sansa undress. There wasn’t any blood on her clothes). She moved to the edge of the tub, the serving girls topping it off with the last of their buckets. Roslyn added the final one, handing the empty bucket back.

Sansa settled in, the heat seeping deep into her flesh. The water was scalding, enough that her skin was already turning red. Yet she felt cold.

She placed her hand on her chest. She felt wrong. And not in the way she felt every month, as Roslyn suggested (convenient to be a woman). Sansa felt like….

She felt....

Empty.

Like a well-tailored dress she’d been longing for, only to have it ruined after one night. Or like a doll her father gave her when she was hardly ten being used as Nymeria’s chew toy the next day. Or like the gaping hole where proper friends would fill, rather than the the platitudes and false smiles everyone else gave her.

Like she’d lost a part of herself.

Sansa sunk down into the water, hearing the tell-tale cluck of disapproval (the hot water would only ruin her complexion). She shut her eyes tight, tight enough it hurt. Sansa imagined she wasn’t in her rooms, she wasn’t in a tub, she wasn’t going to be on a carriage bound back for Winterfell in an hour. Instead, Sansa was sinking into the dark, cold depths of the River Trident. That he was holding onto her hand, leading her down down down, to his palace beneath the waves. He wrought a crown of pearls, settling it atop her head as he made her his bride.

They kissed, and loved, and lived happily ever after.

Her chest burned.

Hands wrapped around her arms, pulling her “Up, child, up!” 

Sansa sputtered for air. When she opened her eyes, she saw the roaring fire, and her dress laid out for her, and the morning light breaking through the windows. 

She was thankful for the bath, for the water running down her cheeks. Sansa had kissed him, once, twice, and a half. Still, it was not enough.

She kissed him. Only, instead of transforming into the handsome prince to whisk Sansa away to a happy future, he was finally set free.


End file.
